Janas Rink Misogyny 83′

Posted: December 6, 2016 in Biographical, tantrum

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Lead coach:  Line up, line up.

Everyone lined up against the wall in the rink in full gear from a skirmish on the ice.  I cut my blades into the frozen water and kicked up some ice chips on my team mate next to me.  He laughed and punched me in the shoulder.  I just wanted to get out on the ice and check a few bodies into the sides and pass the puck or maybe even score.

LC:  We have a couple girls among us

For the first time in my life, I didn’t know what that meant, but it sounded ominous.

TM:  Who’s the girl?

He asked me.  I shrugged, hoping maybe – maybe it wouldn’t be me.

LC:  Genevieve

I hung my head in shame.  I moved out of the line after being called up and was forced to stand in between my coach and assistant coach.  Gasps could be heard from the line.

TMs: That’s a girl, she plays so hard, no way

I locked eyes with my cousin, the only other girl there; she looked down praying I’d not mention her gender.  By this time, I was trying to fight back tears, I couldn’t cry, I couldn’t betray my sex with weakness, not now.  At this time the figure skating group was starting to take over the ice.  The Barbie doll outfits, pink on pink with long well kempt blonde hair and a white wash of skin.  They came out like a sickening Pepto-Bismol army, sliding with their egg crates in front, struggling to keep their stance and show off their ballerina skills.

LC:  We cannot have girls on our team – girls do not play hockey they figure skate.

He pointed at the incoming pink mass as if I could miss it.  I looked back to the line, their black gear and helmets, their sticks and heavy skates.  These were warriors that played a game to hone their skills until the time came to use them.  The ice dancers, beautiful in their own rights, did not fit into who I am.  I am no ice dancer, I have no finesses, I am not a fine instrument, I am a blunt tool, rugged, durable, and powerful.  He could see I was visibly distressed, this caused the line to become distressed.  Until that moment I was considered to be one of the best of them and many cheered when I was picked for their team.  I argued my stance and shocked my coaches with my lack of A) remote desire to join the tutu brigade and B) how I spoke with reason and sense.

They tried to backpedal, claiming it wasn’t their decisions but it was the simple fact that the hockey team used the men’s locker room and the figure skating used the women’s locker room.  I offered to change in the women’s locker room and skate out to meet them on the ice.  Their logic failed at every turn and finally I was told…

LC: Enough. Girls shouldn’t be playing hockey.

I flipped them the bird, in gloved hands so not sure how much of the middle finger I managed to get up as I skated off.  I hated the color pink for almost twenty years after that.  I was a little sad as I watched my younger brother excel in hockey to the point of earning a scholarship at UMASS Lowell.  I used to wonder – could that have helped me pay for college… as I paid down my student loans.

2016, November the 8th

Posted: November 16, 2016 in Poem, political

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November the 8th

November the 8th

Oh what a mistake

came from November the 8th

 

at first we thought

how bad could it be

for little old you or me

it got bad as we got mad

and well,

The Alt right rose and white people marched in rows

not all but most

telling us all how to live our lives as they kept post

Your skin is too dark, they’d say

As they carried my neighbor away

 

Ah, November the 8th

November the 8th

Oh what a mistake

came from November the 8th

 

The Trumpets were all the rage

Beautiful women burning books

Showing us all how we should look and cook

But now for those flat chested ones just the cage

The cubicle sin for what you’ve been given

hid them away and made them pay

for not having the most popular features of the day

forget equal pay or self respect

there was nothing of any of us left

 

Ah, November the 8th

November the 8th

Oh what a mistake

came from November the 8th

 

No educational fixes just higher taxes

Corporations being lifted by our breaking backes

Soon us Americans couldn’t work in our own land

for simple math was beyond our command

So foreigners were brought in to perform

and we were demanded to conform

 

Ah, November the 8th

November the 8th

Oh what a mistake

came from November the 8th

 

Deportations began

Of true and real citizens

As it never stopped our country before

Why would they care, it was after all only the poor

The blight on the golden dome for sure

 

Ah, November the 8th

November the 8th

Oh what a mistake

came from November the 8th

 

The only small saving grace

Was our forced migration put us in the right place

To watch as our old home burned to the ground

In some world war or so what was whispered around town

I felt bad for a minute, but then realized we earned it.

wind

Posted: September 29, 2015 in Poem
Beautiful young woman jumping on  the beach with a colored tissue

Beautiful young woman jumping on the beach with a colored tissue

For me the love comes from looking above

To that world seen yet invisible

To be added to and made divisible

This heralding in of green exhales

How I love you in every detail

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As I watch the republican base follow Trump off a cliff I recall the words of a film character: Stupid is as Stupid does.  I wish he’d stop saying he’s a self-made business man – as that is a boldface lie, he worked in his dad’s real-estate company using his dad’s money… not so self-made. But there is no telling the racist misogynists this – they are just happy to follow another moron around, sniffing at his backside like the inept four-legged beasts they are.  Apparently they still can’t get over the fact they can’t kill, rape, dominate black people – but hey… at least there’s still women! And maybe in a few generations they’ll get over the fact they lost the civil war because they were pieces of shit and God doesn’t want to have anything to do with them. But as Romney knows – Satan is right there waiting for you all!

-no offense to the lovely four-leggeds. Don’t think they would hate a dog because he/she came from mexico. But they’d kill each other for a bone. That’s about the only correlation.

mr snuffleupagus

Posted: August 25, 2015 in Uncategorized

bad-guys

I’m not in the business of shaming,

But if you come at me – there is only you to be blaming,

Being a survivor is not an identifier,

But being told to remain silent is a sin,

Should signs not be put up to warn people of the dangers of a vacant sewer cap?

Why not can I then share my stories of pain,

With those around,

Perhaps healing will be found,

I feel bad when I hurt another,

Even if it is my perpetrator,

I have a heart my brother says,

How do I express myself honestly and share my stories successfully without showing the creatures around me for being as dark as a soul can get – cannot forget.

I always hear people say, hey he wasn’t that bad.. right? I mean we are all three dimensional.

So let him babysit your kids and see

So you like him – I get it – so you love him  – make me sick, nah forget it

Evil is an interesting thing, tangible and real… as he gropes for a feel

To murder a child is bad

To a rape a woman is … sad? I’m sure it’s her fault – even if she was five, six, seven, eight…

At what point does the evil own the mistake

At what point do I ever become free – or is this nightmare to always follow me

Like Big bird’s best friend – this evil, only I can see

what a waste

Posted: May 29, 2015 in Uncategorized

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I was somewhere when I saw a frog

He was quite the hog

Big and bullish

Long and tall

He looked towards me and grinned

I smiled back – seemed like the only polite thing to do

She crocked and said

“Little two feet walker, where is your head?”

I was in shock but replied, “Attached to my neck?”

She crocked again, “If you kill us all dead, then you shall too. How do you not see this, stupid two.”

She crocked and left and I stood their ashamed.

“But it isn’t my game!” I tried to let her know

How could I possibly show

That even though they are not at their best I am not like the rest

Somewhere I went, walking on still

Head full of crocks as I came upon a hill

Clap Clap – went a tall bird with her orange bill

“Why you so crazy thick legs?”, She asked

I cocked my head and noticed a tiny frog leg caught between her lips.

“I didn’t know I was crazy.” I answered, “Suppose that’s why I am.”

“I fly and fly, all around.” She began

“I see how things change on the ground,

Your strong thick legs are taking over the land

I lose water and food to the man.

Don’t you need to drink, don’t you eat?”

With that her jaw clapped and the leg was gone.

A few pumps of her wings and soon so was she.

“Why is everyone yelling at me?” I pondered as I continued my trek.

I walked down the hill and came to a stream

The water was murky and clean

I saw a large fish swimming beneath a vibrant gleam

I couldn’t see for some time as the light hurt my eye

“Darkness you live in, this is true. That is why the light bothers you.” I assume the fish spoke

“You take from me everything and make us choke,

On the very air we breathe, you poison it purposely!”

“Please great fish; it is not I but my kind that has gone mad.”

“I see your arms, so long and strong, with many limbs at the end to hold

I have seen your people build great blocks hording water only to take

As our cousin you have made so many mistakes.” She continued

“You kill us with no regard to our lives our hopes or our dreams.

The ocean runs black and the nutritious soil begins to turn to sand

Your days are limited upon this land.”

“Please great fish, hear me forest, I am not your enemy, I am only lost.” I pleaded

She shook her head and submerged out of sight.

I continued to walk – wandered all night

Then I saw the moon so large and bright

She swelled to five times her size and lowered to meet my eyes

“Stomping seed of mine, how I fed you and you did dine

How I changed the landscape forcing your migration

Demanding your evolution to be for me what I needed you to be

For a brief time, we were one, you were loved by everyone

But as of late I am seeing my mistake

You have removed yourself from my love

Thinking you shall rise above

You were to be my protector the guardian of this ALL

until you grew wise enough to fly beyond my borders

to pollinate the universe with my code

I made you strong I made you bold

my story you were supposed to have told

but I am done, making room for another one

I can no longer ask

you have failed every task.”

“I am here!” I replied “I am here for you!! Anything you need me to do!”

“I need you all to die.”

The moon waned and returned and the forest stood still

Until from behind a large growl could be heard

and I thought the human race destroyed – how absurd.

Ezekiel

Posted: April 10, 2015 in Short Story
Tags:

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It can’t be me. My hand shakes as the voice booms in from somewhere. Feels like the voice comes from within me. It frightens me. It tells me things I shouldn’t know, don’t want to know, what can I do about it?! However, it still comes. Tells me to fill these blank pages with ink. I am unable to do anything else, but answer.

The moon shines in full and pregnant. It reflects the sunlight down into my dark bedroom. I dragged my heavy wooden desk across the floor to capture it. It’s whatever, energy, blew my lights, exploded my computer, and stopped my watch. I ware the watch for the weight and as a sign of remembrance. I forget how odd my life has become since it entered.

I am nothing special, never was. I don’t recycle, I don’t donate my time or my money, of course I don’t have any money. I work at a pizza shop and rent the smelly apartment right above it. It isn’t bad, a tiny one room and the owners family live next store. I thought this was perfect, simple. They don’t ask too much of me and I never ask for a raise. I have no car, no debt, and no savings. I merely exist, week to week, day to day.

Nothing special, no reason for this thing to have found me. Wondered here from some distant universe just to mess with my head. It messes with my head.

It’s coming. Like some small creature sensing a larger one prowling near by, I can feel it. It moves into my dark room with a pulse of static energy. I hear the floor boards and ceiling creek with its entry, yet it has no feet, no body, no voice; other than the one it uses inside me. I am not very imaginative either, nor unstable. To think I could imagine it. My hand is trembling. I know it’s real. It comes to me at odd times, but only when I am alone.

I remember now, one day I was hiking in the woods, filling my city lungs with clean air. Hoping it will last me until next time I get back to the mountains. I sensed it then. I think that was our introduction. The birds that were signing so feverishly stopped, the crickets steadied their legs and even the wind became still. But they didn’t run. That was my cue. If those birds and bugs took a sudden mass exodus I would be right on there tails or a few yards in front. But no one moved, they only became silent, as not to miss a second of this event.

The sun seemed so bright and blinding that day. It was as if it grew in the sky and glared white to the point in which I could no longer gaze up. Then it was gone. The birds and insects started their songs up and the wind continued to trim the trees and curve about the landscape. I thought nothing more.

Until the day it returned. Yes, Its bodiless odor tickled my nose as the hairs on my body stood up. The scent immediately reminded me of the wood and of that day. Although until now I never made that connection. It has power and is powerful. I believe if it wanted, it could use me like a marionette, but it doesn’t. It has some sort of code of conduct with us, us, listen to me. I speak for the human race now.

The wind has stopped blowing the curtains. The energy it gives off almost has a soft hum. I can feel it moving. I know it has no body, but I can sense where the center of the creature is. I turn in my chair dropping my blue pen. It ricochets off the wooden floor. I look to the window for fear the wind might blow my papers, but nothing now, nothing, but silence.

It’s in front of me; My eyes fail me, but the hairs on my arm do not. My skin is how I see it, my ability to sense is also how I see it, but my eyes, they might as well be shut. Although that might frighten me even more.

It is actually very kind in a way. Other than its presence. It would be like walking in the city if you were a 90 pound girl and a rough warn 6’6, 300 pound man starts walking towards you – if you had any subterfuge you’d be gone before he even knew you were there, but it’s too late. You don’t know the outcome, he just might need change or might be walking on by, the only thing your senses tell you are your survival rate if A or B or C comes to fruition.

I can’t even think of what A might be in my situation. I am not sure the motives of this creature, if it is a creature. I think all of the people that had ever had knowledge of it burned a long time ago. It speaks.

“We are ready.” It states. The voice is not mine. It is deep and sounds strong, finite. It is an odd feeling. Hearing something without the need for your ears. It feels like I am hearing it as if it is sitting across the room and we are chatting up the evening. Sometimes I forget I am physically alone and speak aloud to it. The owners of the shop have taken note.

It doesn’t give me soft, gentle, fluffy information. Instead it fills my head with darkness, of trials and tribulations ahead. Not for me personally, it offers nothing to me. No great future insight or words of wisdom (lottery ticket numbers), but it sees us as a whole. I am my species and it has something to say. So I write. I don’t go out anymore, even though the colorful city lights beckon and past lovers call. I wait nightly for the being to come to fill these pages. I wait no longer.

“We will end it tonight.” It warns. I am not sure what terrified me more, being responsible for these words trying to get them published or reentering the world. Like some sort of dragonfly larva I hatch back out into the same landscape but with a different view.

“The race of man, that shall suffer greatly, may survive if these words are heeded.”

I reach quickly for the pen and move to turn my chair, but to my surprise it turns on its own. It tucks me close to the desk and then moves the papers close to me at an angle, just the way I like it. I wet the pages.

This voice never has a tone of disapproval nor speak ill of us. It doesn’t tell us how to correct the wrongs we have done. It is more concerned with our survival. I wish I knew why, why waist…

“Those that live past tomorrow’s changes and the renewal’s growing pains shall behold a world full of life, food, and shelter for balanced generations to come.”

I sense a calmness in it as we finish. I had never sensed an emotion before, just its presence. It is filled with relief. I write these final words. My pen lies down next to the 3 inch thick manuscript beside it. My chair moves without my help. It pulls me away from the desk and spins me. I am facing the creature now. I feel the form move into my space, the tiniest of pressure upon my cheek, and it speaks.

“We thank you.” I feel an armless embrace and am filled with love. I feel weightless, almost giddy. It feels like, home, safe. It begins to move away and like a child being put down by their mother I reach up.

“Don’t.” I plead, almost beg. The tornado of pain writhes within. Bring the love back, it is a drug I can not exist without. I need it, I have to have it. Please!

It continues out. My love lost turns to anger. I am now hurt by this contract’s agreement. I have fulfilled my duty and written these words, and now I am thrown to the side. To live here in a world so distorted by opinions and frozen by truth told lies. I feel it move out the window. Silencing the pigeons as it floats away. I reach out the window with my arm as if to grasp the graspless. My watch begins to tick.

I cry aloud, “No!” letting go off all the pain these past few months have given me.

I wasn’t saying, no don’t leave me, or no come back, or no we’re not done, but to the entire book, no.

No! It was as if I was on autopilot when I was writing these words, and maybe after all I was. My emotions weren’t active, in fact they weren’t even on. Just now looking out at that beautiful moon and my city home I understood what was told to me. What is about to occur in split seconds to us all and not to far in the distant future. I will be alive to see this Renewal. I might not survive it. I rush the desk and grab the book. Its flimsy off white paper and my blue inked scratches. I hold it with contempt and slowly stretch my ticking watched arm out the window with book in hand.

I release my thumb, but the wind is still. I drop the book, but it does not fall. I sense something looking at me and I look up. I saw something I am still not sure what it could have been. It shook me. I trembled again, unable to look away and unable to stand. I fall on the floor grasping the sill to keep my eyes on it and I know it sees me. In fact that is the only reason it is peering into the snow-globe I exist in.

This is impossible to say. These images seem too archaic to me, but for the sensations that make it real. Peering into this world, as if to say “I see you” is a large eye. It broke through the clouds and has an eyelid and eyelashes. I think the color of the eye was blue green-ish, but the color moved like a reflected oil spill on water. The eye saw me and made me feel like an ant in an ant farm. Of course odd thoughts such as where is the rest of the body and what is really going on here? Crept and burned into my mind unpleasantly. The eye never blinked, but was locked on my movements as I reached out of the window and took hold of the manuscript and held it tight to my chest. It blinked. My room creaked and I could feel the presence reenter so I brashly turned away to see, nothing. I could sense it was back. I looked back to where the eye had appeared to see nothing. But knowing it was there and how tiny it made me feel, makes me wonder more, the things we don’t know and don’t understand will always far out way what we do.

I turned back to the present and sat on my bed, feeling like a shamed child caught in the unforgivable act of parental betrayal, I wept. I toppled over myself filled with shame, fear, and pain. Not pain for me, but the pain we are all about to go through. The loss my family will suffer, we all will suffer. The words turned into images in my mind as I wailed the moon into the sun. The presence never left me. I could sense it sitting next to me on my hard bed, rubbing my back, as my mother had a long time ago.